She’d smelled like roses. His roses. And she would marry him, would become his wife in front of the world, and he would never have her. Never touch her. He would watch in silence as another man put his hands on her, the two of them counting the days until they could kill him. He exhaled, shakily, the crisp air biting his skin. It caused him physical pain to remember how little it had taken to unravel his restraint. She’d all but pressed a hand to his torso and, like a man unmoored, he’d wanted to rip her dress down the middle, sink to his knees and taste her.
